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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300457">never have i ever</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours'>kitseybarbours</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>stay with me [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Crying, Humiliation, Internalized Fatphobia, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Self-Worth Issues, Unrequited Crush</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:16:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,801</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24300457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin’s not a jealous person, or at least that’s what he tells himself.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>stay with me [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1750270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>192</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>never have i ever</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Despite this series' title, I regret to inform you that Tim Stoker does not actually get any in the current fic. (But it <em>does</em> take place after the events of both <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247957">between friends</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247894">nothing better</a>, in which he definitely does.) Some context might be lost if you haven't read them, but, like, live your dreams, you know? Fair warning: this one is a lot less fun than the other two.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>Martin only likes to go out for Archive-staff drinks when Jon comes, too. This has happened approximately once in living memory, and Jon went home about half eight with a dazed look in his eyes, as though he’d only just now realised that he hadn’t intended to come along at all.</p><p>Things had loosened up a lot after that—that was the night, if Martin recalls correctly, that Tim had climbed up on the table and performed a rendition of <em>El Chico Del Apartamente 512 </em>so note-perfect and so bizarrely sexy that the bartender hadn’t even shouted at him to get down. Martin knows the <em>others </em>always have a better time when their boss isn’t around; they visibly relax, laugh a little louder, order another pint or two without casting sheepish glances at Jon.</p><p>But Martin likes it when he’s there. He still feels intimidated by his new co-workers, with their legitimate degrees and their years of actual academic experience and their very solid, appropriately referenced, not at all made-up CVs. Jon, of course, is no exception—but when he’s there, Martin is guiltily certain that at least <em>he’s </em>no longer the most uncomfortable person in the room. And besides, he likes Jon; he likes being around him; he likes squeezing into the booth next to him before anyone else does, sitting on the outside so he can offer to spring up and grab fresh drinks anytime it looks like Jon’s is running low.</p><p>All this aside, though, Tim’s been nagging him to come out with them again for weeks now. And it’s Friday night, and his mum doesn’t want to talk to him this week for reasons unknown but no less painful to think about, and Tim knows as well as anyone that Martin’s not got much else on. So Martin says yes.</p><p><em>‘Really?’ </em>says Tim, delighted. ‘Brilliant! Sash is coming too, and Rosie, and Diana from the library, and a couple of lads I know from Police Records—<em>know </em>in the Biblical sense, that is—’</p><p>‘So it’s you, me, and your harem?’ says Martin.</p><p>‘Basically, yes! See you later.’ Tim winks at him and dashes off.</p><p>At half-past five they meet in the foyer and troop out into the rain. Sasha kisses Martin’s cheek, obviously pleased to see him: ‘It’s been so long since we’ve had a proper chat! How’s your new project coming along, did that lace pattern work out okay?’</p><p>‘Er, yeah, it’s fine. Did it in waste yarn first and I’m feeling better about it now.’ Despite himself, Martin looks around, scanning the faces under their scarves and raincoats. ‘I don’t suppose Jon is…?’</p><p>Sasha looks at him kindly. ‘Nope, don’t think so. When I passed his office, the door was still shut; another late one, looked like.’</p><p>Martin swallows. ‘Figures. Um—shall we, then?’</p><p>He and Sasha share his umbrella; she holds onto his forearm and tells him happily about her research, about the podcasts she’s listening to while she does data entry, about the custard tart she wants to bake this weekend. ‘And what about you, Martin?’ she prompts him. ‘What’re you up to lately?’</p><p><em>Coming in to work early so I can bring Jon a cup of tea as soon as he gets in. Secretly looking forward to making a mistake so he’ll call me into his office. Going home, sitting on the couch alone, thinking about texting him some stupid question about a statement or something on the off-chance he’ll reply. </em>He clears his throat. ‘Um, not much. I just started re-watching the, uh, <em>Brideshead</em> mini-series, the one from the eighties—?’</p><p>‘Oh my <em>God, </em>with Jeremy Irons?! Not gonna lie, ten out of ten, would bang. Like, would <em>still </em>bang, in this day and age, even though he’s like seventy-something,’ Sasha gushes, laughing. ‘In his big fucking castle up in Scotland or whatever—what a <em>dream!’</em></p><p>‘I mostly just have it on in the background while I knit,’ Martin says weakly.</p><p>‘Are we talking about Jeremy <em>Irons?’ </em>Tim cuts in, turning around from where he walks with his arms around Diana and Rosie’s shoulders. (The Police Records lads are meeting them at the pub, apparently.) Rosie and Diana both make swooning noises, and then they’re all four gushing about <em>Dead Ringers </em>and <em>The French Lieutenant’s Woman </em>and whatever happened to Anthony Andrews, anyway? and by the time they make it to the pub Martin hasn’t said another word. It’s fine by him.</p><p>The Police Records lads flag them down from a big, round corner booth, and introductions and cheek-kisses are made all round. One of them gives Martin an appraising look, a suggestive glint in his brown eyes, and Martin blushes and turns away, busying himself hanging up his coat. Tim races off to get their first round—‘Sash, vodka cran, Rosie, just a lemonade, Diana, whiskey sour, Martin, whatever beer <em>I </em>like, because you’ll only drink half of it and then I’ll get to finish it. Have I got that all right?’</p><p>A chorus of yeses greets him. They slide into the booth, Martin making sure to clinch the edge spot even though Jon isn’t beside him, so that he can get up and leave without bothering anyone else. The Police Records blokes are already flirting with Rosie and Diana, who are eagerly flirting back. Sasha went up to the bar with Tim to help him carry the drinks, and Martin can see them from here, Tim’s hands resting lightly on Sasha’s waist and her arms slung around his neck as she chatters away to him with a beaming smile on her face, his expression soft and attentive as he listens.</p><p>Martin looks away. He’s happy for them, of course he is; but <em>God, </em>he’s lonely. How long since someone touched him, since someone looked at him like that? He feels a tightness beginning in his throat and wills it to go away. <em>Not here. Not now. </em></p><p>When they come back, Martin downs a heftier swallow of beer than he’s maybe ever drunk at once, and Tim raises his eyebrows, impressed. ‘Gonna drink a whole one tonight, then?’</p><p>‘Maybe,’ Martin mutters, pushing the glass away. He drags his finger through the condensation it leaves behind, his eyes fixed on the table. This was a bad idea, he can tell, and the evening’s barely gotten started.</p><p><em>‘So!’ </em>says Tim, clapping his hands. He swigs his drink and sets it down. ‘Who wants to play Never Have I Ever?’</p><p>‘What are we, in sixth form?’ Diana laughs.</p><p>‘Isn’t that more of a three-a.m.-sleepover activity?’ Sasha chimes in.</p><p>‘No and yes,’ says Tim. ‘Who’s in? Show of hands.’</p><p>Glancing around at one another, everyone slowly puts their hands up. Martin is the last to do so; he knows Tim notices, but he doesn’t say anything. ‘Thought so,’ says Tim triumphantly. ‘I’ll go first. Never have I ever shown up stoned to work.’</p><p>Diana, one of the Police Records guys, and Tim all take a drink, and then Tim takes a second one: ‘For Elias. No, I mean it.’</p><p>‘My turn!’ says Sasha, next to him. ‘Never have I ever had…inappropriate thoughts about Gillian Anderson.’ She presses her hand to her heart, miming a swoon.</p><p>All three of the girls—and Tim—take a drink. ‘Who?’ says one of the Police Records guys.</p><p>‘Agent Scully,’ explains Sasha, and then they both drink too.</p><p>‘Zero for two, Martin,’ chides Tim. ‘Surely you’re not <em>such </em>an angel? Why don’t you go next, hm?’</p><p><em>Fuck. </em>‘Ah…Never have I ever been…arrested,’ he offers lamely, and is so flustered that he takes a drink.</p><p>‘Really?’ Rosie asks. ‘I never would’ve guessed.’</p><p>‘Oh, wait—shit—no. Never mind. I haven’t. I <em>haven’t,’ </em>he protests, when Tim makes sceptical noises. ‘Shit, I’m sorry, I’ve cocked this all up.’</p><p>‘It’s okay,’ soothes Sasha, giving him an encouraging smile that just makes him feel worse. ‘Jack? Why don’t you go?’</p><p>The Police Records bloke called Jack—they’re indistinguishable, as far as Martin can tell, with the same rugbyish look that Martin didn’t think Tim went for, but then again Tim goes for just about anything with a pulse<em>—</em>asks a question that Martin can’t make out but that makes everyone else roar with laughter. They all drink deeply, sloshing and laughing, and Martin hurries to do the same, never mind what it was about. <em>God, </em>he hates drinking games, and drinking in general, and being around people and making a fool of himself. He wishes, aching, that Jon were here, but tries to console himself that he’s not: <em>You’d hate even more for </em>him <em>to see you like this.</em></p><p>The game continues for several excruciating rounds. Martin half-listens and drinks at random, not caring what he accidentally ‘reveals’ about himself in the process. He’s plotting his escape route—is it too early? What excuse can he give? Should he pretend to get an important phone call, or will they see right through that?—when Tim says, ‘All right, here’s a big one. Never have I ever gotten down and dirty at work.’</p><p>There’s a moment of silence, and then Sasha erupts in giggles. ‘God, Tim, you’re making me blush,’ she says, putting her hands up to her cheeks. She takes a quick drink, still laughing, and elbows him in the ribs: ‘You, too! Drink up!’</p><p>Jack and his friend wolf-whistle as Tim throws back a good half of his beer, pumping his free fist in the air. Martin starts to wish that his skin was dark like Sasha’s: her blush is invisible, but he can feel his own cheeks heating and knows his face will soon be mortifyingly pink. <em>‘Both </em>of you?’ he blurts stupidly. ‘Together? At <em>this </em>job—at the Institute?’</p><p>‘Yup,’ says Sasha. ‘Only <em>once, </em>though, mind! And it was on our lunch break, not on company time. Don’t tell Elias, though,’ she begs him, grinning. But she remembers something, and turns to Tim: ‘Oh, wait, but Tim, you said you’d—’</p><p>‘Done it before? Yup,’ Tim says. The cheer in his voice grows strained. <em>‘And </em>I said I didn’t want to—’</p><p>‘Oh, <em>shit, </em>I’m sorry. <em>Damn.</em> Forget I said anything,’ Sasha implores Martin.</p><p>‘Me? Why apologise to me?’ Martin is absolutely in over his head, glancing back and forth between the two of them with growing alarm. ‘What happened?’</p><p>The others at the table are trying very hard not to watch this conversation unfold. Rosie has pulled out her phone to show Diana something, but they keep glancing up at Sasha, Martin, and Tim; the Police Records boys appear to be scanning for the exits.</p><p>Tim and Sasha are engaged in urgent, silent damage control. Sasha’s eyebrows are practically touching her hairline as she stares Tim down; he shakes his head at her, <em>uh-uh, no way. </em>Finally Sasha gives a huff and looks at Martin. ‘It’s my bloody fault—I brought it up, so I might as well be the one to tell you. Tim didn’t want you to know—well, I mean, he didn’t want <em>anyone </em>to know, but <em>especially </em>not you, because—’</p><p>‘Because <em>what?’ </em>Martin’s voice has slipped into the high, anxious register he most hates.</p><p>‘Because I had sex with Jon,’ Tim says, coolly. ‘It was only once, and only as a favour. Strictly platonic. Nothing came of it. But. It happened. So.’</p><p>Martin is pretty sure he hears Rosie whisper ‘Oh, shit,’ under her breath. He realises, distantly, that that means she <em>knows, </em>and if she knows then Diana knows, and <em>God, </em>he knows he’s shit at hiding his emotions but he didn’t realise his stupid fucking crush was common knowledge in the whole bloody <em>Archive. </em>Sasha is looking at him with unbearable sympathy, like she just wants to reach across the table and give him a hug. Martin can’t stand it.</p><p>‘Okay,’ he says, and his voice comes out a pitiful whisper. He tries again. ‘Okay. You had—you had sex with Jon. At—work.’ The very words are surreal; <em>does not compute.</em></p><p>‘In the Archive, yeah,’ says Tim, his voice carefully neutral. ‘Only once, like I said. I initiated it—he looked like he needed a shag—and it never happened again.’</p><p><em>He looked like he needed a shag. </em>God, Martin can’t <em>imagine </em>living in a world, in a body, where things were that easy. He hates Tim, suddenly, with a vehemence that feels like ice water dumped over his head. He hates Tim and his charming smile and the easy way he flirts with everyone, making them giggle and blush no matter their age, gender, orientation; he hates his perfect golden skin and his thick black hair, dishevelled just-so, and his tall, slim frame that moves exactly the way he wants it to, drawing everyone’s eye in approval.</p><p>Martin has never felt like that—never, not for a single moment of his life. Never once has it crossed his mind that he could see someone, a co-worker, a friend, who <em>looked like they needed a shag, </em>and offer to help them out, confident that he’d be gratefully accepted instead of laughed at in incredulous disgust. He’s much more likely to be on the receiving end of pity sex, and even that’s little more than a pipe dream.</p><p>Everyone is watching him. Diana, Rosie, and the others have stopped pretending not to pay attention: this is hard to ignore.</p><p>‘Martin?’ says Sasha timorously, and Martin realises that they’re all waiting for him to say something. He tries to find words but comes up short, his throat constricting. He can already feel the tightness behind his cheekbones that immediately precedes tears.</p><p>‘I need to go,’ he says, his voice small.</p><p>‘Oh, God, Martin,’ says Tim. ‘I’m sorry, mate. I’m so sorry. It was <em>nothing, </em>really, I promise. See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you; I know how much you like him, I didn’t want to upset you—please, Martin, just stay, yeah? I’ll finish your beer for you, c’mon—’</p><p>‘Take it,’ Martin says, his voice unfamiliar in its coldness. He shoves the remains of the pint across the table at Tim, not caring when it splashes his hand. ‘I’ll see you on Monday.’</p><p>He grabs his rain jacket from the hook, dropping Diana’s peacoat in the process. He hears Sasha calling after him as he fumbles for his umbrella amid the identical black ones in the holder at the door, but he doesn’t turn around. Outside, he shoves up his umbrella and lets the drumming of the rain camouflage his furious sobs.</p>
<hr/><p>The Tube ride back to his place is long. Normally he doesn’t mind—he’ll listen to music, entire albums at a time during rush hour, or get some work in on his latest poem—but tonight he’s impatient for it to be over, so he can go inside and lock his door and absorb his misery alone.</p><p>The climb up to his fifth-floor flat always leaves him panting. He could take the lift, but the memory of his mother nagging him about getting more exercise or else he’ll keep getting fatter (back when she cared about things like that) is so strong and so painful that he takes the stairs every time. He feels even more useless and unattractive and stupid, so <em>stupid </em>by the time he’s reached his flat, sweat and tears and rain mingling on his face, his heart pounding with exertion and shame. He fumbles his key in the lock, tears off his coat, and throws himself onto the couch, tossing his glasses aside and burying his face in his hands to weep.</p><p><em>It’s not fair. </em>It’s a foolish thought, a childish thought, but the only one running through his head. He’s had a crush on Jon since his very first day on the job; he was smitten with him at once, and the feeling hasn’t eased up even as Martin has become intimately familiar with his temper, his impatience, his general haughtiness, and his absolute aversion to human contact of any kind. Martin can work with that. Martin <em>would </em>work with that, with <em>any </em>of that, if Jon would ever let him.</p><p>And <em>Tim—</em>Tim sleeps with people just because he can. It’s not a kind thought, and it’s probably not a fair one, either (Martin remembers how he’d been with Sasha at the bar, the way he looked at her), but there’s a grain of truth there, too, Martin is sure of it. The alternative, of course, is that Tim <em>also </em>has feelings for Jon, real feelings, and they’ve been—even if only once, even if meaninglessly—reciprocated. That’s too much for Martin to take.</p><p>He curls onto his side on the couch and sobs: great, wracking, pitiful sobs, loud and hopeless and unrestrained. He’s needed to do this for a long time, he guesses, but Tim’s just pushed him over the edge. <em>It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not </em>fair.</p><p>A vision of the two of them, together, pops into his mind. What had they done? What did Jon want? Why was Tim the one to give it to him?</p><p>In the Archive, Tim had said; Martin pictures him pushing Jon up against a filing cabinet, Tim’s hand in Jon’s long, thick hair, pulling his head back to kiss up and down his neck. One leg pressed between Jon’s skinny thighs, letting Jon rock against him, soft, helpless moans escaping his lips. Martin groans, squeezing his eyes tighter shut.</p><p><em>Worse. What would be worse?</em> Jon on his knees for Tim, sucking his cock, on his face a look of bliss and need. Tim caressing him, telling him how good he is, how lovely he looks with Tim’s cock in his mouth. Martin has imagined <em>himself </em>in that position, countless times: stroking Jon’s hair, telling him again and again how good he feels, how much he’s wanted this, as he spills himself down Jon’s throat with a cry of his name.</p><p>Then as now, he finds himself growing hard. <em>God, </em>he wants him; <em>God, </em>he hates that someone else has had him first. Martin’s not a jealous person, or at least that’s what he tells himself.</p><p>Tears still spill freely from his eyes as he unbuttons his fly and shoves his hand into his boxers, gasping when he touches his cock. He closes his fist around himself, his body shaking with hiccupping breaths, and he casts about for the worst, the most humiliating, the most devastating scenario he can think of. What if Tim was lying? What if it hadn’t been just once? Sure, he’s with Sasha now, at least outside of work, but Martin has the feeling that neither of them are particularly attached to monogamy. What if Jon and Tim have slept together since, <em>are </em>sleeping together, with regularity and familiarity and affection?</p><p>Jon on his hands and knees, moaning in ecstasy as Tim fucks him. Jon after, curling up on Tim’s chest as he catches his breath, murmuring <em>Thank you, thank you </em>against Tim’s lips. Jon falling asleep in Tim’s arms, his brow un-furrowing at long last, his breathing easing into the soft, steady rhythm of sleep.</p><p>Martin chokes out a sob as his hand moves furiously on his cock. He wants Jon sexually, of course he does, but more than that he wants him in his arms, he wants to touch him casually and see how he doesn’t flinch, he wants to cook him breakfast and see Jon come padding out of his bedroom in one of Martin’s sweaters, scooping his hair into a messy knot as he comes to kiss Martin good morning. He wants Jon to feel safe with him.</p><p>Martin bets they laugh at him. In this new reality, the one that has been cracked open and brandished at him by Sasha’s ill-timed comment at the pub, Tim and Jon make fun of Martin, his stupid, obvious, schoolboy crush and the way it makes him babble and stutter and drop things around Jon. When they’re in bed together, which of course they are, they mock his absence, jeering at the fact that he <em>wishes </em>he was in Tim’s place and never, never will be.</p><p>Waves of humiliation wash over Martin at the thought, which is so vivid it must be true; he is achingly, painfully, unbearably hard. His wrist is beginning to hurt, and he leans into the pain. <em>It should hurt. I should suffer for this. It’s what they want.</em></p><p>What would Jon think, if he saw Martin like this, fully dressed on the couch, sobbing and touching himself as the rain beats down outside? Whispering Jon’s name, as he now finds himself doing, the single syllable torn ragged from deep in his throat? <em>He thinks you’re pathetic, you’re useless, you’re a waste of space—but then, you already knew that. He doesn’t want you. He never will.</em></p><p>He comes with a long, shaking moan, his body contracting in on itself like an animal protecting its fragile underbelly. When he’s finished, he lies there, staring at the blurry ceiling and hating himself—but, too, feeling free somehow: untethered. <em>At least I got that out of my system. </em>He reaches blindly for a tissue, cleans himself up with disgust. He shambles into his bedroom without putting his glasses back on: he has a good idea of what he looks like right now, and he doesn’t want proof.</p><p>He takes a brief, hot shower, leaving his dirty clothes on the bathroom floor; he’s suddenly exhausted, unable to face even the simplest of tasks. He hasn’t eaten supper but he isn’t hungry. He takes his bedtime pills and crawls between his sheets with relief: somewhere to hide. At the last moment, he remembers to check his phone, and finds text after text from Sasha, even a missed call from Tim. The sight of his name on the screen makes Martin cringe. He throws the phone to the foot of the bed and turns onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself.</p><p>Some nights, when he’s feeling especially lonely, he’ll imagine Jon is here with him, curled up in his arms or lying with his chest pressed to Martin’s back, holding him close. Tonight is one of those nights. Martin closes his eyes and imagines Jon’s arms enfolding him, the coolness of his skin; the whisper of his hair against Martin’s neck as he leans in to whisper, ‘Goodnight.’ He imagines he can smell him, paper and cedarwood and just a hint of smoke. He imagines Jon’s heartbeat, calm and steady. He imagines—and this is the hardest—he imagines Jon wants him, and loves him, and has chosen him.</p><p><em>Never have I ever had that. And I never will. </em>He curls tighter into his own embrace.</p><p>Some nights, he cries like this. Tonight, he falls asleep.</p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm obsessed with jealous!Martin in MAG168. I have gone so far as to change my Twitter display name to "martin blackwood scorpio king" on the admittedly shaky basis of this textual evidence. I just think he's neat!</p><p>Thank you to my girlfriend <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebacchus/pseuds/bluebacchus">bluebacchus</a> for deciding that Martin only drinks half a beer at a time. She definitely did not draw this from a real-life example. Come call me out on that, or on anything else you may choose, on <a href="https://twitter.com/saintmontague">Twitter</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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